The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost
by Poofable
Summary: This is your life story, starting on the day you are born and ending on the day that you die. You agree that loving Jack Frost is a struggle, especially the parts where. . . well, he should technically exist. But this journey is a fast one, and you should think it wise to hold on. Hold on as tight as you can, because unlike Jack, you won't live forever. (Death POV.)
1. Life

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**0**_

Even when you were in womb, I saw your soul shining bright.

But you were a struggle. Your mother so often bent over, her breaths coming hard and fast, and for a while it seemed that you were going to come too early. Sleeping for you meant long, exhausting nights for her. And yet, while you slept so soundly, she offered you support. She wrapped her hands beneath her pregnant belly, holding you up, much like she would for the rest of her life.

And your father, he was _the_ one kind of man. The real kind. When he found out that she was carrying you, he made a conscious effort to stash all of the alcoholic beverages in the house; even the bottles of wine, gifted to him so long ago to be saved for a special occasion, went into hiding. _A special occasion_, he said, _but not a pregnancy._ He would rub the top of his wife's head, stroke her curly black hair, and step outside for a smoke. And when she screamed, acting on hormones, he chuckled to himself and did dishes quietly.

I'm busy. Usually, I do not pay attention to the unborn. And but yet –

The day you were born was the day you were supposed to die.

"_There's been a complication with the umbilical cord. She isn't breathing."_

"_Sir, we're going to have to perform CPR. Can you please step back?"_

" _. . . There's no response."_

"_Keep trying. We aren't going to have a stillborn tonight."_

You didn't die. You escaped my clutches, not weakly. You flew from my hands, like a bird. You lived your hundred years exactly like that. Some days, you were a nightingale, and others, an eagle. You twirled and dreamed and saw stars, and you were beautiful straight through your body and all the way down to your toes.

That night, the snow and ice was heavy. The ground was a splotchy white. Every snowflake gave me a billion reasons to take you outside with me, to bury you deep into that frosted ground. If I took you early, by the morning, you and your grave would be blanketed with a comforting sheet of snow. But you were nothing like a cold, dead body. You were born with round cheeks and warm hands, and out of guilt, I remained in the room with you, your mother, and your father. As is normal, they assumed that they were by themselves. To give them that right, I might have left and provided your family with privacy. Even if I had, though, you wouldn't have been alone.

There was someone else at the window that night.

* * *

We should keep moving.

You've got a long way to go.

**Onto your 1st birthday.**


	2. Nothing Much

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**1**_

The day that you celebrate one year of life is an uneventful one.

You are much too young to comprehend much of anything. At your age, all you do is incessantly babble (save for a few sorry excuses of English vocabulary.) Your father, who I will started calling 'Dad' for simplicity's sake (likewise for your mother, but I will use 'Mom'), doesn't often speak you. When he does, he says things that are too intelligent for your developing brain:

"_You know, you poop a lot."_

Mom has resorted to an incomprehensible baby talk that makes me cringe:

"_Yes, baby, that is SPAGHETTI. 'Geddy. Yes. Honey, honey, come here. Yes, NOW! Listen to her, she said geddy!"_

Thankfully, when they tuck you in at night, she returns to a well-mannered, civilized member of society. I cannot spite her for speaking to you the ways she does. She loves you too much to_ not_ sacrifice all of the dignity that she has left.

I digress. Your first birthday.

I was off doing something more productive that eve, but I was drawn in when I heard your parents' voices, which were accompanied by what sounded like a hundred more. Turns out, it wasn't a hundred other voices that I heard, but it came close. I suspect that they invited the entire neighborhood to witness the way you smashed your baby hands right onto that cake.

Other children that are slightly older run around you. They tug on your bib and try to take your cake. Shamefully, you let them! I am appalled that you are so passive. Perhaps one of these days, I need to bring you aside and carefully explain to you the process of 'marking your territory.'

* * *

For the most part, you are boring at this age. I'm leaving now.

**I'll be back when you are two.**


	3. Marking Your Territory

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**2**_

Turns out, you know exactly how to 'mark your territory.'

In fact, you are quite good at it.

For tonight's event at Mom's charity sponsoring, she has dressed you in a red velvet outfit. What little black hair that you have is pulled up and secured with a ribbon. I suspect that you, as a fumbling two-year-old, are not impressed by all of this unnecessary prettying. The second that Mom leaves you alone to your own devices, you take out the ribbon and run halfway the across the house with it dangling from your hands.

She is in the process of putting on some earrings. Once she sees you, she scurries after you and sweeps you up into her arms. "Naughty girl," she exclaims as she ties up your hair again. When she sets you down, she tells you firmly (as if expecting you to understand and obey) to act like a young lady and that she will be checking on you again in five minutes.

It takes you three minutes and forty-two seconds to wreak more havoc. By that time, you have decided on rebellion by taking off your clothes. You bless the family dog with a new chew toy. For your final act of defiance, you take off your diaper and wet the carpet. And once Mom notices, it is already too late.

"What have you done?" She looks horrified.

"_Down with the empire!" _says Dad in a mock baby voice. He lifts you, close to his fort of a body. Against his chest you look so small, like he is the wall and you are nothing but a stone. You are a pebble, a grain of sand floating on his ocean. He does not care that you are soiled, for you are his daughter and he is your father, and he's been through worse things. "_Anarchy! We must bring down the evil Momma so we can usurp the throne and rule the nation!"_

Mom rubs her temples. "You two," she says, and she says it with great grief. "Clean her up. And don't forget to put on her jacket and hat, or else Jack Frost will be nipping at her nose."

Jack Frost didn't want to do exactly that, but let's just say that he was having an amusing time, watching you defy all law and order. Jack likes mischief.

* * *

There goes your future husband.

**And you're terrible at first impressions.**


	4. Meeting

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**3**_

Eleven days after your third birthday, you meet Jack Frost for the first time.

The morning is cold and bitter. Every other tree down the road is decorated with glass, but not a field, not a clearing, and not a sidewalk has been forgotten; they are covered with ice, some places slicker than others, and the human race on this side of the world has become a slipping, sliding mess, struggling to venture downhill without losing their footing. The air is crisper than it was last night, and it certainly feels so, because the sun is white and much more unforgiving than the moon.

Mom is afraid to breathe in. She inhales carefully and exhales happily. She directs her warm breaths into her dampening palms, which aren't gloved. "You're going to be a good girl today, aren't you?" she asks, lowering herself to your height. "I promise I'll be back later. I'm not going to forget about you."

"Don worfet bow meh," you sternly tell her. I'm not expert, but I think this roughly translates into: _"Don't forget about me."_

**I've been practicing.**

"Come on, baby." Mom gently tugs on your hand, which is clamped around her index finger. "Come on, Ms. Taylor is going to take you in now."

You vigorously shake your head. "Nuh!" And, because you're _you_, to display your obvious displeasure, you take off a bandaid that you've been wearing for a week and tape it to your hair.

Mom wearily strips it off. "You're going to have to be a big girl, now," she says, keeping her voice calm over your hiccups, which are strategically designed to coax sympathy from your mother. "You always tell me that you're not a baby anymore. Well, big girls go to preschool, don't they?"

In response, you begin to cry. If I was in your position, I would cry as well. That is a very logical and clever move of you. And really, I empathize with you; I could not imagine the horrors of being surrounded by other three-year-olds (whining, senseless creatures). You are a superior child, this I admire, and because of that, I almost consider spiriting you away for a day. I could show you many more interesting things, such as how I take souls to the other world.

Alas, I cannot.

Jack Frost gets to you before I do.

When you are crying, you see him standing behind Mom.

**A backstory:**

**I've known this boy for a while. We certainly aren't friends, and we aren't acquaintances either; maybe I'd consider him a friend of an enemy, or an enemy's friend, and I'm sure that he thinks the same thing about me. I'd hope so, because if he thought more about me than I about him, this would create the tension necessary for a very awkward relationship.**

He holds his hand out, palm up.

When you relent and Mom walks you inside, she asks whose hand you're grabbing onto. I see Jack Frost there, an invisible guide, giving you the illusion that you are just as safe with him as you are with your mother. Truth is: Jack is a threat. He is unpredictable. This you don't know, so you are protected, or so you believe.

Tomorrow, icicles will collapse from trees and shatter on the ground. The streets will be clear, power will be returned to half of the city, and driving will be considered safe again. Everyone around you knows that, when warm weather comes, you will blossom like flower but grow roots like a tree. Your heart will be solid. Nothing will be able to touch you.

This is the absolute and undeniable truth.

From now on, every winter will be Jack Frost.

This is the one person that nobody, not even your parents, can protect you from. He can be there when they are not, can see you when they cannot. I won't lie. Maybe I fear for you.

* * *

You are not yet strong.

**I will be watching closely.**


	5. Smell

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**4**_

Shamelessly, I admit that I'm not paying much attention to you this year.

Shamefully, I admit that I'm doing this for all of the wrong reasons.

Right now, the August wind carries rich smells and the sounds of cicadas. I prefer to work in the cold. During the winter, my work is covered by early nights. I stand on graves and let the snow and ice help me; there is a solemnity that accompanies death. But in the summer, I wait in the heat. Most of my time is spent pulling out dogs that have been left in a car.

I have nothing to say about you. Maybe your hair is getting longer, and maybe your eyes are clearer. Perhaps Mom has enrolled you in some extracurricular activities, and perhaps Dad has stopped smoking for your health. I don't know. I'm trying to make it seem like I care.

I don't care, really.

I left you in February.

I departed because when I ventured nearer to you, I smelled something. It was a familiar scent, and it hung all around your body, almost like it was your blood and I could not resist. But it was not your blood, and it had nothing to do with your cleanliness or anything related. This odor was like earth, but the deeper kind, and reminded me of a fruit that had dangled from its branch for a year too long – the smell of expiration, of rotten sourness.

This smell was _Death_.

I determined I was not going to see you anymore. When you died, I would show up and receive my pay. That would be the end of it.

* * *

I'm terrible at sticking to my resolutions.

**The number five was getting closer.**


	6. Self-Aware

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**5**_

For a year, you carried that stench.

You had no idea. Actually, nobody did. . . not even when you started having pains under your skin, certain chills beneath your bedsheets, a suspicious lack of weight. All those symptoms only amounted to whispers throughout the neighborhood, words like, "She looks so sickly." Your mother, whose sole (and self-determined) purpose in life was to hold you up even if meant breaking her own bones, did everything that she could for you. Nothing was enough.

But for fifty-one weeks, you sit in bed and talk to Jack Frost. Only Jack Frost.

"I'm tired," you tell him every now and then.

To keep you smiling, he sometimes responds, "Not four-hundred years tired. You've got it easy."

Even as a child, you think that his smart aleck behavior is clever. Forget comedic, animated kid's movies with subtle adult humor. From the very beginning, you had the gift of seeing through the most gilded of things. Most people (even adults) regard the world like. . . a snowglobe: surrounded by glass walls, unaware that there is a universe out there that is much, _much _bigger than their own person and whatever orbits around them.

You, on the other hand, capture intelligence.

**Don't get me wrong. I don't define intelligence by how well you can take a standardized test (for goodness sake's, you're only in kindergarten. You've barely mastered 'coloring in the lines.')  
You are what we spirits like to call self-aware.**

What I'm trying to say is:

You don't believe in Jack Frost in the same way other children do.

You believe in Jack Frost because you aren't stupid enough to be fooled.

* * *

Two days after your fifth birthday, they find leukemia.

**This is going to be a long, long year.**


	7. Tug of War

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**6**_

Too many abnormal white blood cells.

Crowding you like an infection, stacking inside of your lymph nodes.

How it rages inside of you, a parasite creeping along the walls of your bones, bruising your perfect child skin and leaving you so ravaged that you can hardly stand. 'You': what was once a healthy living creature has become an anemic specimen, a member of the human race that is hardly _living_ anymore. With your stench, you are the walking dead.

**"Acute myelogenous leukemia****."**

_Well._

Though you are bedridden, I still see hope in your eyes. When it is late at night and your family has left the hospital, meant to return in the morning, you remain wide, wide awake. Regarding the temperature, winter is at its end, and I can sense the warming weather ahead, only two days from now. But anyone standing outside in this frozen wasteland can see your tiny handprint press against the windowpane, the frosty outline that curls around the shape of your thumb, the burning in your fingerprints.

No…winter is still here.

Jack Frost has not left your side. Nobody in the hospital notices your laughter, which echoes down the hallways. The spirit dances and makes jokes, keeping your heart alive.

Don't close your eyes. Your body is dead.

_Dying_, actually. It is happening so quickly that you may as well consider yourself a corpse in the ground already.

With my sick mind, I imagine how pretty you would look down there. I have a soft spot for children, especially unanimated ones. Were you to die, you would no longer be Jack Frost's little cherub; you would be mine, and it would be _me_ waking you up in the middle of the night for a chat. I would tell you about the world happening five feet above you. For you, time would not move forward, only backwards, and once it hit zero again then we could truly be the best of friends, you and I: Death and Little Girl, one of the most interesting pairs in culture, literature, in existence.

Ah, I'm rambling.

Really, I should not act so greedily…and so readily.

Jack is holding on, and I think you are too. This has become a game of 'tug-of-war.' You and him, together, are fighting me. The rope is slipping from your hands. Soon, you will fall to the dirt, exhausted and unable to continue.

However, Jack Frost is not letting go.

But neither am I.

I won't lose you again.

* * *

One, two, three, four, five, six…

**Can you make it to seven?**


	8. Name

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**7**_

"Jack?"

Your voice softly calls out for him. I have been closing my eyes, worn from the day's events, but your noises give me a stir. I awake confusedly. Both you and I understand that, in the midst of June, there is little to no chance that Jack will appear; the days are growing ever longer still, and each day we become nearer to the summer solstice. I have been waiting here all this time, prepared to collect your soul. Yet, you still whisper his name, and with every time that you do, you – a quickening heartbeat – skip a tiny bit further away from my grasp.

For some reason, he appears. He always does.

"What's up, little princess?" he asks as he appears in a flurry of wind. I know that he knows I'm there, but he doesn't acknowledge me.

"I really, really, _really_ miss going outside." You tell him this, expecting that he, your savior and protector from all things evil, _will _do something about this. But this is a problem far from Jack's reach, which becomes obvious when he replies to you with a strained smile.

"Well," he begins uncertainly. That's when his eyes shift towards my shadow, and I retreat further into myself, simultaneously loving and hating the attention. "_Well,"_ he repeats. He's practiced this: tiptoeing around children. "Right now, you're feeling kind of sick, aren't you? So you have to stay inside until you're better. But once you're not sick anymore, you can go outside and play all you want. When you do, I'll make sure there's lots and lots of snow, okay?"

You lean back into your hospital bed, disappointed. "Yeah, I guess." For a moment, your eyes brighten. "Jack!" you exclaim. "When my hair grows back, I want it to be white. . . just like yours!"

Jack embarrassedly runs a hand through his hair. "It wasn't always like this," he says.

Ah, yes. The life _before_ the spirit world.

We all remember ours quite clearly.

"Well, it's going to be white," you determine, without much thought. To you, Jack Frost may be a spirit, but he is _your_ spirit, and therefore you don't see him any differently than you would see your mother or even your father. You look so excited at this that Jack falls silent, smiling, letting you join in on his spirit fun.

Secretly, he wants you to join.

He may have 'friends', but Jack Frost is getting very, very lonely.

Sometimes, I get a little lonely too.

* * *

You are growing closer to Jack Frost.

But, with each passing year, you grow closer to me as well.

**Watch your step.**


	9. Time

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**8**_

_Sweet, sweet girl._

_Close your eyes._

_Death will sing you_

_A Lullaby._

You haven't heard a word. Your eyes are shut.

"She doesn't belong to you," says Jack Frost. He stands in front of your bed, his staff poised in front of his body. He protects both you and himself. I can hear him, breaths like fluttering wings, nearly panicking. And I remember: Jack Frost may be a spirit, but he is the closest thing to a human my world has ever seen. "Stop being selfish. You know it's too early for her."

I step back, regarding him with much contempt. "Many people die _early_," I say, "by your standards. Some people die too late. They live on and on, with only vegetables for bodies and dead matter for brains. But in my world, everything is precisely on time."

"No, it's too early," says Jack, "even for you."

**So. The Brat has caught me red-handed.**

"Billions and billions of lives have passed through these hands," I tell him, feeling disconcerted. Then suddenly, I'm angry. Doesn't Jack Frost understand? Doesn't he know what it's like to remain unseen? "So what if I wanted to. . . _catch_ one, and hold it tight? Do you still think that I'm being selfish?"

"What do you want?" Jack demands. His skin is so white, even against the hospital walls. I can see your sleeping skin, in turn, becoming paler. "You've let her go before. I saw you walk away. So why now?"

And then: "You want something else from her. What is it? And WHY?"

He's almost snarling, like a feral animal.

But.

You are the child that I desire. This I cannot explain.

Jack's question does not deter me. It does not stop me from pursuing my original goal. However, it does make me pause and reconsider the reasoning behind that goal: If I obtained you, who would you be to me? A friend? A daughter?

I want you, yes. But there is something I want more.

I turn my back to Jack, and he thinks that he has won. Tonight, he'll sleep by your bedside, making sure that I won't return – and for tonight, I won't. Perhaps two days from now. Maybe five years. I am only going to bide my time, and while I'm at it, I'll lose myself in deep reflection.

Jack Frost is right about one thing. _It is too early, even for me. _But death patiently waits for everything. Death could wait a hundred years for a single life, all for a split second of darkness.

* * *

Sleep well tonight, child.

I'll be nearby if you need me.

**You're safer in my arms than his.**


	10. Genesis

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**9**_

I'm going to tell you a Story-of-Sorts.

But first, you must consider this one question:

_What came first? The spirits? The humans? Or death?_

From its dark arms, death created the spirits; the spirits, supposedly, made the human beings. However, every spirit was once a human too. And so, we have our questions and no answers. And wouldn't it be silly to consider that an infinite source created all of us at the same time? Then we would have to consider…who – or _what_ – out there rules us all?

I'm not here to make you question your beliefs. Believe in God or what you will, I don't care.

Onward.

Many hundreds of years ago, Jack died and then lived to tell the tale.

He had a family, just like you. A mother and a sister, I believe. One day, he fell through ice and awoke beneath the surface. I witnessed this with my own eyes and, naturally, I attempted to take and carry his soul into…wherever it goes after death (I'm only the courier here.) But his soul – the very essence that makes Jack _Jack_ – was swept from my hands, only to return to his body.

This has happened many times before, and with the many 'lesser-level' spirits before him.

I hope you understand the point I'm trying to make.

If I'm a spirit, did I once have a life before…_this?_ I think that impossible. Death would have had to exist before my time. And so, maybe I'm not a spirit at all. Perhaps I'm part of some larger force, one that I don't quite understand yet. I don't even remember the _beginning, _anyway.

What. Came. First?

Then I realize: I don't belong either way.

This is why I so desperately reach for humanity.

Or...

Maybe that is why I so desperately want to pull you in.

* * *

It's been over a year since I've seen you.

**Where are you now?**


	11. Commodity

**The Ups and Downs of Falling in Love with Jack Frost**

_**10**_

Today, you can celebrate ten years of glorious life.

After all of your hardships, you still cannot catch a break.

The wind is bitter but the sun is high. Nearly two feet of snow blew in from a storm two days ago, and the evidence still remains in the form of desert dunes. However, the streets are clear and the sidewalks are covered in brown slush. You stand there with your rain boots, stomping the soles into the ground, hollering at some kid down the street who, for the life of him, can't stop trying to get your attention (through the form of teasing, naturally.)

"Give that back to me _RIGHT NOW, _Johnny Sanders!" you shout. Your eyelashes are like icicles; your cheekbones are like empty creeks, trickling with a nearly forgotten dampness. "If you don't, I'll…I'll—!"

"Or you'll do _what?_" the ever-so-classy Mr. Johnny Sanders asks.

In my opinion, he's a rough looking kid. His scraped up knees, which have had many personal relationships with the asphalt, are knobby and exposed even though it's nearly zero degrees. Funnily enough, he still wears a hat – a goofy one, with pom poms dangling from each ear. He holds one of your favorite dolls, which was given to you while you were still living in the hospital. She has no hair, but Johnny wouldn't understand why. Yours has grown back (not much of it, but at least nobody mistakes you for a boy anymore).

"I'll get Jack Frost to come and kick your butt!" you threaten.

I nearly facepalm.

"Yeah, right!" says Johnny, who sticks his tongue out at you. "He's not even real. Who else are you gonna get? Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy, too?"

Still halfway to tears, you furiously nod.

Personally, if I were you, I would knock his ass down to the ground and take my doll back. Then again, I am an everlasting spirit of Death, so I'm sure that my own priorities are not quite aligned with yours. I watch curiously. My inner demon wants to see Johnny Sanders from down the block get beaten up by a girl.

Like a miniature, screaming bull, you charge at him. Johnny doesn't even have time to respond. You barrel into his stomach and both of you tumble down onto the sidewalk (you the passenger, Johnny the cushion.) Wailing, you start punching him as hard as you can, although that isn't saying much considering that both of your hands are covered with knitted mittens and he's wearing a coat thicker than whale fat.

"Give me back my doll, Sanders!"

I lean forward, concerned. I certainly don't want to take a child's life. Not today, at least.

"Fine, FINE!" he yells. He chucks the doll into the snow, and you finally relent. When you get off of him and run to your toy's assistance, Johnny stands up and dusts himself off, looking more pissed than he ever has. He's probably reconsidering his taste in women. "Girls are so stupid," he says. Then he trudges back home.

You clutch the doll protectively. I'm applauding, but you can't hear me.

Jack Frost appears beside me. "You really shouldn't encourage her to act like an animal," he jokes.

He has sort-of-kind-of gotten off of my case, ever since you survived the leukemia. Apparently, as long as I'm not threatening to take you to the underworld or attempting to make you my eternal, undead servant child, then we're on good terms. However, _I'm_ not entirely content with this. I regard him coolly, irritated by the way that he floats there. So _casually._

"She's going to kill that boy one day," I respond. "She's precious commodity."

Jack chuckles.

I wish that I could kill _him._

Again, that is.

* * *

Today has been a bad day.

**I'll catch you in your nightmares.**


	12. Bored

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**11**_

You've gotten into this habit of video-gaming.

Oh no _no_, it's not just a habit either; this is a serious addiction, and I'm starting to wonder if your complete lack of friends has finally started to eat you from the inside. Wait, let me take that back. You do have friends. You have two, actually, but it's a shame that one of them is technically the Grim Reaper (not to mention, you can't even see him…so I don't know if he counts), and the other is an annoying, mischievous frost spirit who likes to bully your classmates when you aren't looking.

**A Disclaimer:  
I apologize. I didn't mean to imply that we're friends or anything. I should have worded that differently…**

Anyway, the video-gaming.

You're sitting in the middle of the couch on a warm spring day. You have a controller in your hands, and you're mercilessly thumb-stabbing whatever buttons you can reach. I'm bored as hell, as it's been an awfully slow week. I'm laying down on the top of the couch behind you. My hands are behind my head, and my eyes are shut.

Sometimes, I reach out and attempt to speak with you. It's impossible for my physical form to be everywhere at once, so I have spiritual representations of myself all over the world, delivering souls to the afterlife. However, whenever my physical form takes a day off (_er-hem)…_ well, those are the days I like to speak to you, maybe in hopes that you will listen, or maybe in hopes that you'll reply with something worth my time.

"You're not going to get any better by button mashing," I comment wearily.

The screen lights up, the speakers explode, and you jump up from the couch, screaming with great (and totally unnecessary) elation. I roll my eyes (pathetic…) and balance my scythe on the tip of my foot. I don't even move when your mother walks in from the kitchen with her purse and keys, and says, "Honey, I'm going out for a bit. Is there anything that I can get you?"

Your attention has already returned to the screen. "Nuh-uh."

"Nothing for me, thanks," I instruct.

She walks right past me and out the front door.

Women can be so oblivious.

"Where's your boyfriend?" I ask you.

Funny how you don't see what's always there, and how you do see what can never be found.

* * *

Hah!

You're about to hit puberty.

**That's funny.**


	13. Prayer

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**12**_

At twelve years old, you obtain your first boyfriend.

His name is Mason Jones, and he likes video gaming almost as much as you do. He has black hair and brown eyes, and he's unusually tall for a thirteen-year-old. From what I've heard and not exactly observed, he's in your English class and he's surprisingly educated on Dickens. You recite all of this information by heart to your mother as she cooks dinner. Your father is smoking at the table, one eye on you and the other on the daily paper.

"Well, he sounds lovely," says Mom.

I'm sitting at 'The-Table-of-Skeptics' alongside your father. No teenage boy with long hair and chains on his belt loops can possibly be trustworthy. Those are the types of people who think death is beautiful; while I don't mind that at all, these are the same people that think they can so easily personify me. I am no skeleton in robes, nor am I monster made of hellfire.

I'm just…me.

The three of you sit down at the table, and I remain in the fourth chair. You lock hands with both of your parents and say a prayer, which goes something like: "Thank you Lord for our food…thy gifts…which we receive…our bountiful lives… Amen."

For some reason, this makes me smile, and not in a sarcastic or humorous way. This situation is almost saddening, because nothing lasts forever; this I'm aware of, and this I've experienced firsthand, and I'm very sorry, my young girl, but…

I listen to no one.

* * *

Good girl.

**You'll learn. Soon enough.**


	14. Teens

**Hello all!**

I'd really love to thank those who have followed/favorited/reviewed this story. We still have a very, very long way to go, so I appreciate every single form of feedback that I can get! That feedback is what encourages me to keep writing, so if you haven't yet told me how you feel about this story, leave a review and I'll get back to you (and be thanking you profusely.)

Enjoy ~

* * *

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**13**_

"We should go anyway," you say. "It's not like my parents are going to find out. They think that I'm sleeping over at Johanna's house."

For you, puberty could have gone several different ways. One, you might have remained the way you were except for a few grouchy habits. Two, you could have finally discovered yourself, and then gone out into the world and acted accordingly. However, officially becoming a teenager has taken its toll on you. You are quite unlike the girl you were four months ago, at the beginning of the school year.

You have discovered makeup. Your irises are so bright from the inside, but their color has been drowned out by the consistent, thick line of black around your eyes. Your once dandelion soft hair has become matted and short, and everywhere you go, you have a cigarette between your fingers. Curls of sweet smelling smoke rise from between your lips.

You're still dating Mason, who I consider the primary influencer of your change.

"Ha," he laughs. "And who would tell?"

You narrow your eyes. Jack is sitting behind you, and he has a disapproving look on his face. "Well," you tell Mason, "maybe some people, but they can't rat. We don't have to worry about him."

At this, Mason perks up. "Him?" he asks. "Who's _him?"_

I'm snickering.

"Nobody," you say quickly, realizing your mistake. You take the cigarette out from between your teeth and tap its edges, waiting for the ashes to spark out until they dissipate into the air. "He's just a friend that's been…watching over me since I was a kid. He can get a bit too protective, sometimes…and a little too watchful."

Oh dearest, you want to talk about _watchful? _Hah.

"Seriously," says Mason irritably. "What's his name?"

"Jack," you respond.

"Jack?"

"Frost."

Let's talk about watchful.

Tonight, you're going to attend a party that's halfway across town. Indeed, your parents will believe that you're spending the night at a friend's house. When you're mingling with bodies and sweat, and dancing to your heart's content with a red cup in one hand and your hair in another, they're going to be fast asleep and thinking that you're still their little girl. At the same time, you'll be feeling something incredibly lonely inside of you, despite the fact that there are two spirits at each shoulder – one representing a life filled with trouble, and the other a wonderful, endless death.

You're still so young; you don't yet understand anything about life, responsibility, and sacrifice.

* * *

This is your first party of one hundred,

and your first struggle of a thousand.

**Begin the fall.**


	15. Imaginary Friend

Our longest chapter yet!

I feel like this story is focusing a lot more on DeathxOC than I'd planned. Although Death will be talking about OC's relationship with Jack (once she gets older), I feel like I should rename the story.

**Do my readers have any thoughts? Please share if you do!**

Enjoy. :)

* * *

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**14**_

You're stumbling along the sidewalk, your entire weight leaning against one of your friends to your left. In your free hand, you're holding a half emptied bottle; another person next to you keeps slipping a cigarette into your mouth to let you inhale and then taking it away to taste it for himself. Between drags, you hiccup with laughter.

"At least we're responsible," you say, halfway between a giggle and a complacent whine. "I mean…we could be driving home, you know?"

"You're so stupid," says the girl that you're leaning against. "You're not even old enough to drive."

"One more year and she gets her permit," chirps the boy. He takes such an intense drag from his cigarette that I'm sure his face is going to suck into itself. His eyes are so red that he looks demonic beneath the flickering streetlights. "Mason gets his license in four months. Lucky bastard."

"He'll get to go anywhere he wants," says the girl dreamily.

"Let him…" you say. You release the girl and stumble forward. You can only make a few steps before you collapse onto your back on the grass. You remain there, your arms spread but your legs squeezed tightly together, as if you're waiting for an embrace from God. Drunk as can be, you weakly call out, "Jack…_Jack…_I know you're watching me…"

Jack isn't here; it's not his presence that you sense.

Just like when you had cancer, I have found myself nearing you. That familiar stench of death still lingers on your clothes, but it isn't strong. The scent is more like an afterthought, like a smell you've attained from being around someone else. Right now, I can't catch anything at all – your hair is like freshly mowed grass, your breath is like whiskey, your fingers like tobacco, and your body like…

I grimace.

Like other bodies.

"Hah, who the hell is Jack?" asks the girl. She sits cross-legged. "_Ooh, _are you cheating on Mason?"

You halfheartedly smack her arm. "Like I haven't been sleeping with other people for _months_,_" _you tell her, rolling your eyes. Those eyes never come back down, never refocus – they remain rolled back into your head, like you're trying to see stars in an imaginary darkness.

"So how come you won't sleep with me?" the boy complains.

"Oh, shut up, Daniel," you say. "It's because you're ugly."

Daniel looks at you crossly. "Then tell us who Jack is. Have you slept with him, too?"

You slowly shake your head, your eyes closing a little more with every back and forth movement. Your tight grasp on the bottle loosens and it rolls away from your hands. "He's not anyone," you sigh. "Ever since I was little, he's kinda been hanging around. He doesn't see me a lot…just during the winter. And he disappears just as fast as he comes."

"What's he look like?" the girl asks. She's picking at a scab on her lip ring.

"Why the hell does it matter?"

"Well. Is he hot?"

In your intoxicated state, you find this absolutely hilarious. You break out into laughter, like that's the freshest, most wonderful thing that you've ever heard. When you're done, you let out multiple sigh-laughs, and then eventually settle down. "Yeah, he's good looking," you say quietly. "Silver hair…silver skin…silver eyes…but he has red cheeks. That's how I know he's real, you know?"

Daniel and the girl simultaneously glance at each other, and then they start to chuckle beneath their breath. "You're so freaking drunk," says Daniel. "Looks like someone has an imaginary friend."

"Imaginary friend…" you say. Your head tilts in my direction. For a moment, your eyes focus and I nearly jump out of my skin, because I suspect that you've seen me; but they become half-lidded, and you slip into another world. "No, Jack is real…but there's someone else that I see. He isn't like Jack at all, though…black hair…black eyes…but that same silver skin…the same red cheeks."

I'm frozen. There's no possible explanation for this.

"What's _his_ name?" the girl asks jokingly.

Your dainty eyebrows furrow, which is quite unbecoming of you. "I…"

"I'm Death," I tell you. "And I'm your best friend."

You part your lips, and your stench is so overwhelming and I'm temporarily disgusted; but you're so incredibly beautiful and so incredibly close to death – to me – all_ the time _that I am drawn to you either way. "I don't know," you say, and you break eye contact with me. I know that you haven't seen me all this time. "But he's there. I know he is. And he never goes away."

Daniel chuckles. "Let's get you the fuck home," he says. "Come on, Chelsea, help me lift her."

"Are we getting you through the window again?" asks Chelsea.

"I don't care," you mumble as your friends grab onto your forearms. "I don't care at all. Let me in through the front door if you have to. My parents are going to hear me coming in either way."

I stand in the middle of the street and watch them take you away. I don't think I've ever been so uncomfortable. For all of eternity, people have challenged me; they've also worshipped me, loved me, feared me, and even attempted to speak with me. But I have never remained so idly on the edge of someone's vision, as if I'm a continuously fading memory. I'm amazed that you've come close to death so many times that my presence has become like static, like a lull that you constantly hear but can't quite discern.

* * *

Who are you?

More importantly...

**Who am I to you?**


	16. An Intervention

Yes, my wonderful surprise reviewer, Death is a boy. x)

Sorry for the confusion.

* * *

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**15**_

Jack Frost has returned, and he believes it's time for an intervention.

"What on earth are you doing to yourself?" he asks you.

Both of us are sitting down on your bed; respectively, his staff and my scythe are lined up against the wall so that we don't accidentally destroy anything. At least he would be able to explain himself. Every now and then, he keeps sharing this irritable glance with me, as if he's blaming_ me _for your not-so-recent descent into this 'bad girl' phase. If you were to die, I wouldn't exactly be complaining; but trust me, _I'm _not the one who's influencing you to smoke like a chimney.

"What does it matter?" you ask. "Some people do this for fun. Some people do it to die. And some people do it to live."

**Oh, you're becoming quite the poet, aren't you?**

You're standing in front of a mirror, turning and angling yourself so that you can gauge how 'good your backside looks in those jeans.' There are wrinkled clothes all over your floor, and there is the faint sound of rock music playing from _somewhere; _and I say somewhere because your bedroom is such a disaster that properly locating your radio would be close to impossible.

"It's because you've been hanging around with those people," says Jack.

"Yeah, and who's _those_ people?" you snap. You storm over to your vanity dresser and furiously begin yanking a brush through your hair. In the reflection the mirror, I can see your eyes slide in our direction. "Why are you here anyway? Aren't there colder neighborhoods to freeze over?"

"Because I wanted to talk to you," says Jack, very simply.

This tranquilizes you, but that won't last long. "It's not even December yet," you say softly. You lean over the dresser and apply multiple layers of lipstick. "Jack, I'm not a little kid anymore. Back when I was sick…when you would visit me in the hospital…yeah, thank you for that. Those days were great, but I'm not ill. And I don't need someone watching over me."

Jack glances at me. It's almost as if he can't decide whether my constant presence is a good or a bad thing.

"Where are you going?" he asks as you start shuffling through your purse.

"Out."

"Out where?"

"_Dammit_, Jack, stop being such a nuisance!" You realize how loud your voice has gotten, so you stand there and rub your temples with your eyes shut tight. Then you walk over to the bed and stand directly in front of him. "Come back next year. Maybe things will be better then."

"Things won't get better unless you want them to," he says.

"I meant better for _you," _you tell him. "I love where I am."

"Where you are means death."

"Then I love death."

"And death loves you. He has you right where he wants you."

"I've never met him," you respond uneasily. "But I'm sure he's a great guy."

"Don't say that," says Jack, growing defensive. The tips of his fingers are pressing into his palm, and he's trembling. "Don't ever say that again, because he's listening – he's always listening – and he _will _take you whether you like it or not, and that's not your choice to make. Don't be selfish."

I'm watching this scene unfold with morbid fascination.

You're standing there with your hands hanging at your side, and your mouth is halfway open as if you can't think of anything intelligent to say. Something inside of you _clicks_, but it's nothing major; there isn't fear in your eyes, but there _is _confusion. You're remembering every shadow, every sliver of darkness at the corner of your vision that you just couldn't explain, no matter how hard you looked.

"I—I'm going now," you muster. Just before you turn around, you stop and bite your lip. Then you turn around and give Jack a chaste peck on his cheek. He remains there, looking hurt. "Tell death that I await his call."

I suddenly don't want anything to do with you. Despite escaping me twice, you have gained no appreciation of the life that has been so graciously granted to you. There is something wonderfully tragic about retrieving a soul that clings to life. Here you are, inviting me in. And you – someone who is so imperfectly perfect – have just scared the living daylights out of me.

* * *

I don't want your soul.

Not anymore, I don't.

You as a whole...

**Now that's another story.**


	17. Matter

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**16**_

There's a dark street. Red flashes, blue flashes; everything is lit, and curious eyes are peering through curtains and shades to marvel at the scene going on down below. A vehicle and its shredded remains take up the entire length of the block. People rush back and forth, set up yellow tape, and call for more backup. A disheveled, dirty woman is screaming at the authorities.

Then there's you, like a flower in the midst of a forest fire.

"Excuse me, miss," says an officer. You don't respond, but he continues anyway. "That's the victim's mother over there, but she's gone hysterical and I honestly think she's had a little too much to drink. Are you related to the victim? He isn't carrying any form of identification and neither is his mother. We have no idea who they are at this point."

After some time, you softly reply, "No. I'm his girlfriend, though."

The officer writes something down. "What was his name?"

"Was?" you echo. The facts are finally sinking in. "His name was Mason Jones. He's a senior at North. He was supposed to graduate in a couple of months…he was going to walk."

The officer asks questions for a long time, and even though you answer them, your responses are empty and disconnected. Every night for two years before this one, you've smelt of booze and tobacco. Tonight, you smell like home, like your bed and your parent's cooking. You haven't had your opportunity to sneak out yet, but something tells me you won't. Not after seeing your boyfriend of three years like this.

I wander over the car. There are people attempting to dislodge the scraps of destroyed metal. The car has been wrecked so badly that I'm not sure if there's anything left inside. There's a dim light emitting from between the wreckage, so I weave past living bodies and approach Mason's soul.

I have seen death. I _am _Death. And after so long, this becomes routine. Nothing looks disturbing anymore. Yet, when I get close enough to the soul to retrieve it, there's something in the pit of my stomach that keeps me from reaching out. And I realize that I'm angry at what Mason has done to you. Why shouldn't I leave the soul there to rot and disappear, never to reach an afterlife (if there is one)?

With one hand gripping at my scythe, I lean forward and take the soul. I walk away from the accident and into a black area behind a streetlight. Suddenly, I find myself very alone; and there's only myself and Mason's soul and the annoyance that has been building up in me all this time. And I have no idea why I've become so protective of you, but I know exactly what I have to do. What I _want _to do.

Without as much as a second thought, I squeeze the soul in my hand so hard that it dissipates. Glittering blue dust scatters into the midnight sky, and Mason Jones has completely disappeared from the cosmos. Energy cannot be created, or be destroyed; however, in his case, there will never be another life for him.

I turn around and walk back to where you are. You're now sitting on the edge of the sidewalk with your arms and legs pulled in close. I'm perfectly aware that you never loved Mason, but there's only so much shock that a human being can handle before they're sad whether they loved someone or not. If someone you knew died in their sleep, you might think that's unfortunate but move on with your day. But if someone you knew was raped, murdered, decapitated, and thrown away to be feasted on by wolves, your life might be changed forever.

I sit down next to you, and I let out a great sigh.

* * *

This is your chance.

You can change,

starting _right now._

**Will you?**


	18. The S-Word

**A/N: **Thanks so much to my faithful reviewers. You guys keep me writing!

* * *

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**17**_

When you run into your bedroom and slam the door, I'm so scared that I nearly go flying out of the window. It's not like I've been snooping around or anything, but I get bored when you're not around and the only place more boring than your bedroom is going to school with you. Earlier, I'd been wandering around the neighborhood, aimlessly picking up and releasing souls, and I had _literally_ just decided to pop in to see if you were home when you barged in.

You let out this girly-scream noise and plunge facefirst onto your bed. Even though I know you wouldn't be affected, I quickly move my scythe out of the way (just in case.) Your legs kick up into the air and you roll around in your own happiness for nearly five minutes before you finally calm down.

In your hands is this year's report card. Your name is printed in large letters near the top left corner, and on the other side is: **GPA 3.4. **I'm not exactly human and I've never attended a public high school, so I have no idea what all the hubbub is about until you scream at your ceiling, "I'm going to COLLEGE! I'M GOING TO COLLEGE!"

"Oh, really?" I ask. "_That's _what you nearly gave me a heart attack for?"

You walk right past me and sit down at your vanity mirror, grinning proudly at yourself. Two years ago, I remember looking in that reflection and seeing a girl with tangled hair and a bony collarbone. But today, instead of having eyes like flickering light bulbs, you're beaming from head to toe.

You tape the report card to the top of your mirror. Then you whisper, "I can do anything."

There are three other pictures on the mirror. One photograph is of the horse your parents bought you three months ago; an immense, light brown creature with black hair that's called Uptown Girl. Another photograph is of you and your parents; this was taken exactly _one _month ago. The last picture is a clip art of a single, intricate snowflake. Once you see this picture, you pause and run your fingers over the paper, momentarily distracted from your academic achievement.

I know exactly what that snowflake represents. Trust me, you have no idea how many times I've considered ripping it down and tossing it into the garbage.

"Why are you so proud of a number, anyway?"

Of course, you don't respond, but I've gotten used to that.

You begin singing: _"Wise men say only fools rush in…but I can't help falling in love with you…"_

"Oh, like I don't know why you're singing that song," I tell you. "You think you're in love with the worst spirit that ever existed and suddenly you're singing every tragic, romance song that you think applies to your pitiful love life." Sitting on your bed, I irritably watch you with my chin in my hands. "Fine then, if it makes you happy. You'll be paying for this in the afterlife."

You're walking on air. And with your hands spread out wide, you swirl around like a sunflower on a summer day. The white dress you're wearing fans out around your knees and you fall down again on the bed. The top of your head nearly touches my knee. With a pleasant sigh, you close your eyes and let yourself float away on a cloud built from your dreams. And something about seeing you like this..._looking _like this...makes me smil-

* * *

We're stopping _right there._

I'm not s-wording.

And most certainly not

**because of you.**


	19. Of Age

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**18**_

Tonight is your birthday.

You've been locked up in your room all evening with your eyes on a book. The bed sheets have been pulled up to cover just your feet, and even though it's freezing outside, the window is slightly ajar. The only source of light in here is the lamp beside your bed. Outside, the snow is falling calmly, like specks of pollen, and the world is completely silent.

I'm sitting on the windowsill and watching the street. Nobody has driven yet, so the snow is still pristine and unbothered. There's a dog barking in the distance. A car alarm goes off down the street. Suddenly, Jack appears from the corner of my eye.

"Ah, so you didn't forget," I said.

"Let me through, Death," says Jack quietly, so that you can't hear us conversing.

"And what makes you think I'm going to do that?" I ask. I lean against one of the windows and cross my arms. "If you show up out of the blue, she won't shut up about you for weeks. I'm the one that has to listen to her. Are you going to put me through that sort of torture? One day, it's a heartbreak song. Another day, it's a true love-long distance song. Besides, I was here first."

Jack scowls. "You don't have to stay," he says, glancing at you through the window. You still haven't noticed he's there. "Don't you have better things to do? People to kill, souls to deliver?"

"I haven't left her side in _years."_

"So what, then?" asks Jack. Realization is dawning across his features, and the more aware he looks the angrier I become. For a moment, he's gone breathless because he has no idea how to process this. "Death, do you even _know_ what kind of trouble you're getting yourself into? She can't even _see _you! How are you possibly expecting for her…for her to…"

My heart – does it beat? – stops, like it's been squeezed too tight. "I don't expect anyone to do _anything_," I tell him. And I can't help it; my eyes lower, I feel ashamed, and I want to be miles away and on my own. "I'll get out of your way now, Mr. Frost. Have fun being believed in."

Jack gives me a hard stare. And then he knocks on the window.

Your eyes shoot up like rockets. The spirit waves you over, and you throw the book aside and scramble out of bed. "Jack!" you say as you stumble towards the window. I can see the way that your eyes light up, hear the hummingbird flutter of your laughter.

At that point, I'm standing in the street.

My footsteps are the first that have touched this snow, and I stare at my shoes, wondering how I can leave a trace and yet nobody can see me.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief,

I don't want you to see me.

All I want is to see

**you.**


	20. The Glass

**The Ups and Downs of Life with Jack Frost**

_**19**_

I recall the song that you were singing when you were seventeen; and I'm thrown back to that moment when your head was inches from my leg, and with the voice of a nightingale you asked, _"Shall I stay? – would it be a sin? – if I can't help falling in love with you?"_

Since then, I don't think anybody else has heard that voice besides me. Now I'm wondering if it's sinful to keep that sound for myself, because when there's nothing physical between us I can't hold onto anything else. I despise the song; yet, could I manifest that song with _your_ voice into a treasure to keep, I would; but I'm Death and you're Alive and I should stop acting so selfishly.

I'm feeling disgusted. Once upon a time, I wanted to take you and turn you into my undead friend. I was acting selfishly then, too. And now, for some unexplainable reason, I want to take you away again but for completely different reasons. I'm horrified at myself, at my actions, and at _you_ for being…you.

You're standing outside in the snow, and Jack Frost is there too.

"You know that I'll come back for you every winter," he's promising you. He clasps your hands between his. "And even when I'm gone, I'm there. I swear."

"I know," you say. You wipe your eyes and sheepishly laugh. "Here I go, getting all emotional. And you come back all the time but for some reason I can't believe you, because nobody is there for anybody one-hundred percent of the time. Oh my god, and then I realize how dumb I sound because you really have been there, haven't you? When I was sick, and even when I was a rebellious teenager."

I'm standing there with my hands shaking at my sides. "Don't you do it, Jack Frost," I tell him. He's perfectly aware of my presence, but he's choosing to ignore me. "Don't you dare."

I don't know what I'm angry about: him taking credit or him taking you.

"And I'll be there for the rest of your life, too," he says. "Until the day you die."

Suddenly, I'm standing beside you, and I'm saying, "No. I will. I'm the one who's going to be there, and I'll be there for you afterward, too."

But there's nothing that I can do to project my words, to make you hear me. And because you're never going to understand, I don't know what else to do. I'm standing behind a window that has only one side, and I'm banging my fists against the glass and asking you to listen. But asking you to listen to me is like asking an animal to understand English, because I'm on one plane and you're on another, I can understand you but you cannot understand me, and we are two separate entities, you and I.

And if I could help you understand for even a second, I'm not sure if I would; but I don't want you to want Jack Frost and I don't want Jack Frost to have you. At least I know that there's something there between us that he'll never have, and those are the moments before birth and after death.

Whatever he wants to do with you between then…_fine._

* * *

There once was a beautiful girl,

who knew me like I knew her,

and she was all mine.

**You aren't that girl.**


End file.
